Dominion (35 page)

Clarence sat outside the office of Raylon Berkley, publisher of the
Tribune.
He’d already been waiting fifteen minutes. The plush furniture and original paintings on the wall, even Mimi the white-haired secretary who looked like British royalty, made him nervous. It all reminded him of his first encounter with Berkley twenty years ago, the night he wooed him to the old
Oregon Journal
, taking him to that incredible restaurant.

He suspected he might have been the establishment’s first black customer of the year, and it was June. He had the distinct impression that if he’d walked in by himself, the management would have called the cops. He’d sat there and smiled all evening, trying to be respectful and appreciative, yet not to look ingratiating like an Oreo.

They’d started in a reception area with crystal punch bowls and a silver tea service and fancy little this and that. He’d never had hors d’oeuvres before, unless potato chips and onion dip counted. Here there were tiny finger sandwiches, rose-shaped radishes, olive-topped cream cheese delicacies, polished cherries, and endless sprays of parsley. It reminded him of anything but food.

They’d talked softly as white people always do in such places, not like he did at his family gatherings. When they finally sat down to a table to actually order a meal, the menu featured a myriad of delicate foreign items, nothing sounding remotely close to collard greens, black-eyed peas, or a pig-ear sandwich. The waiter recited the menu as if it were a love sonnet.

The music was something he didn’t know, except that it wasn’t Chuck Berry, the Temptations, or the Supremes. Later, when he went to his parents’ house in North Portland to spend the night, he turned on Aretha Franklin and Otis Redding and even some Louis Armstrong to wash down the evening’s aftertaste and remind himself he was still black.

It was that night Raylon Berkley had said the magic words he remembered to this day. “Clarence, we’re offering you a beginning salary of twenty thousand dollars, plus expenses, and some decent benefits.” In 1977 that seemed a great deal of money to do anything, much less to get free admission to ball games and write about them.

Behind Mimi, the door to the inner sanctum of Berkley’s office burst open and Clarence sat up.

“Clarence! How are you?”

Berkley’s words filtered through his perfect mustache, which never seemed to grow or shrink. Raylon was a compact man, short, medium weight, deliberate and purposeful, characterized by an economy of movement. This economy carried over to both his smile and his frown, which were strikingly similar, capable of their slight alterations with the least amount of warning. A perfect poker face. Behind it was the belief system of an atheist and the fervor of a missionary.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Berkley,” Mimi said. “Congressman Thomas is on line one. Says it will only take a minute.”

“Excuse me, will you Clarence? You know how persistent the congressman can be.” Raylon laughed as if this were funny, and Mimi chuckled too, in the dignified way of royalty.

“Sure,” Clarence said. You pay my salary.

Berkley wasn’t one of those publishers who wanders around looking over the shoulders of reporters, like a domineering mother or a team owner who prowls the sidelines when the coaches and players wish he’d stay up in the owner’s box, drinking martinis. He took pride in giving his editors and writers the widest berth. Still, everyone knew they were
his
editors and writers and the
Trib
was his. This came out most clearly at election time when the paper’s endorsements were handpicked by Raylon.

As Berkley chatted with the congressman, Clarence stood close to the wall, perusing framed front pages of the
Trib
and the
Journal
going back thirty years. He thought about the favor and disfavor you could fall in and out of under Raylon’s dominion. The publisher had distanced himself from Jake Woods the last few years. The scuttlebutt was that Jake’s change to more conservative values or perhaps his embracing of a “fundamentalist” Christian faith had been viewed as a betrayal of the man who’d hired him. Since then, Raylon had redoubled his efforts to get closer to Clarence. He supposed this was because of his skin color, which Raylon considered a political asset, not entirely canceled out by Clarence’s irritating conservatism, which in fact exceeded Jake’s considerably. Things had improved, Clarence had to admit. At the
Trib
ten years earlier the same conservatism would not have been merely irritating, but intolerable.

In the early days, Clarence had been paraded into Berkley’s office to meet VIPs as if he were a champion show dog or a carefully cultivated prize rose. “See, we’re progressive. Meet our black man.” In subsequent years, Raylon had hired dozens of other blacks, nearly all of them liberal, so Clarence was rarely brought in on the dog and pony shows. He didn’t miss them.

Berkley reappeared with a friendly but efficient gesture. “Okay, Clarence, come on in.” After fifteen minutes of small talk, name dropping athletes he knew personally and asking Clarence how he liked the transition from sports to general columnist, Raylon finally cut to the chase.

“I was talking recently with Reg Norcoast.”

“Oh?”

“He said he’s confused. He’s taken a real interest in your sister’s…situation.”

It’s called murder.

“And your niece, of course. He was really shook by this thing. Went to your sister’s funeral, I hear, and named a memorial fund after her to improve North Portland. Even contributed his own money to the reward to find the killers. Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he tells me that on two occasions you’ve been…let’s say, very angry with him. He said you lashed out at him and he doesn’t understand why. Seems to think you have something against him. You’ve done a couple of articles critical of his district. Some folks have said they feel like it’s coming across as a little racist.”

“My main criticisms were of Norcoast’s policies,” Clarence said. “What’s racist about that? I’m a black man criticizing a white man because I think his policies and programs are counterproductive.”

“Yes, but his district is predominantly black.”

“I know that. I’m living in it.”

“Right. Well, then I’m sure you’ll want to be sensitive to the community concerns.”

“I’m not sure the community’s concerns and Norcoast’s are always the same. My main criticism was Norcoast’s history of hiring known gang members, young thugs. Twenty thousand dollars to put up and take down signs, pass out his literature. Think of the potential for intimidation and legitimizing gangs. Are you saying you disagree?”

“Not exactly,” Berkley said. “I don’t know. It’s being done in the larger cities, you know. Some people feel it’s a good gesture, hiring kids to do legitimate work, maybe get them interested in something meaningful, politics and all. These gang summits have established some positive relationships both directions.”

Clarence decided not to argue his case. This wasn’t the time or the place, and Raylon certainly wasn’t the person.

“Anyway, I know you and Reggie, and respect you both. I wondered, is there anything I could do to help patch up this rift between you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I realize you don’t trust politicians, Clarence. And I know you’re pretty adamant about your conservatism. I’m just asking you to give the councilman a chance. He’s a good friend. A good man. Don’t judge him without getting to know him. I’ve got an idea.” He said it with the confidence of a man used to fixing life’s problems. “I mentioned it to Reg. I know you both play tennis. Why not get together and play a few sets? Get to know each other as people.”

What is this,
Fiddler on the Roof?
You the matchmaker or something?

“I’m not going to order you to do it, of course. But I’ve tried to give you every opportunity here, Clarence. I’ve let you in the door as a second conservative on-staff columnist, which is a major change. Very few papers have done that. So, call it a favor if you want, but I’m asking you to give Reg Norcoast an opportunity. I’d like to see you have a civil relationship. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Yeah, okay,” Clarence said, hating himself for saying it. He felt as though he’d just been set up for a prom date with the most obnoxious girl at school.

Raylon walked over, put his arm around him, and asked him about his family, asked if he needed anything. Clarence told him everything was fine, though he knew that wasn’t true.

Geneva walked out of Kim’s Grocery on MLK with a paper sack containing a half gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and a tub of margarine in one hand and her purse in the other. It was only a four-block walk back to her house, but it was almost evening. The darkness was creeping in. She trembled involuntarily, less from the cold than from the idea of not being able to see clearly what was happening around her. She drew in her red mid-length fall coat and buttoned the top button.

After walking briskly two blocks, she saw some shadowy figures to her left and heard a whistle.

“Now there be a bumper kit,” a male voice said loudly.

“I feel like gettin’ me somethin’, don’t you?”

Geneva tensed up and walked a little faster. She wished she was wearing her Nikes instead of her pumps. Half a block later she heard footsteps behind her but decided not to turn around. One more block and she’d be home.

The footsteps seemed to be gaining on her. She considered running all out, but whoever was behind her probably didn’t know she was close to home. It might be better not to turn it into a chase she was certain she’d lose. She looked to see if any neighbors were out who she could go up and talk to. There was nobody.

The footsteps kept coming, and she could hear breathing now. She hoped it was just her own. Only thirty feet from the walkway to her house.

She felt a hand on her neck, and she turned and screamed. The stocking-capped figure pressed up close against her. He grabbed her purse and pulled. She held tight to the strap, but heard the stitching rip and felt it slip out of her hands into his. She fell backward to the sidewalk, hitting her head, groceries tumbling. Frank, the next door neighbor, ran out of his house as the teenage boy in the Air Jordans sprinted off in the other direction. Frank chased after him about twenty feet, then shouted at him.

“Run, punk. Come back and see me, you want some trouble, boy. I’ll make you wish you was sittin’ barebottom on a short order grill, you hear me now?”

Hattie Burns charged across the street like a rushing linebacker, running as fast as her queen-sized body would let her. She plopped down on her knees over her fallen neighbor, just as Frank reached her.

“Geneva!” Hattie cried, desperation in her voice.

“You okay, Mrs. Abernathy?” Frank asked.

“Yeah. I think I’m all right.” She sat up, rubbing the back of her head. “Thanks.”

Hattie comforted Geneva, making a bit more fuss than Geneva liked, but she appreciated the concern. Frank picked up the loaf of bread, milk, and margarine and wadded up the torn grocery sack.

“You have any mace?” Frank asked Geneva. “Or one of those pepper sprays? You know, the ones you can carry in your coat pocket or on your key chain?”

“No. I don’t.” She’d never thought she needed one.

“Well, I get ’em for my wife and daughters. Got an extra. I’ll bring it over later.”

“Thanks.” She heard the shakiness in her voice.

Hattie and Frank escorted Geneva, arms still trembling, up the stairs.